Chapter 15 #2
“No. No. No!” The viscount grew restless. “You’ve got that entirely wrong, my son. Emma came to my defense, and a more dutiful and gracious ward I could not have hoped for. Why, she’s got pluck and spirit. And good thing, too. You wouldn’t be here without her.”
“Behold.” She bolted to her feet, hating to be the subject of discussion and desiring to keep Chris from discovering how deeply entrenched her activities to help him had been. “The yule log is arriving.”
Several servants shuffled in carrying a large log with a ribbon tied neatly around one end.
They advanced slowly to the hearth, with little fanfare, and placed the yule where it could be displayed to full advantage and lit until Twelfth Night.
Burning out before then would bring bad luck, more of which they did not need.
Emma tensed as the three men stood back and looked to Collins for approval. The butler inspected the fire, making sure it didn’t burn too hot, and then said, “Brilliantly done.”
“Quite so,” Lord Astley-Milne agreed. “I do believe this is the finest yule we’ve had in some time. I commend you, Collins.”
She smiled, recalling the lengths they’d gone to the year before keeping the log lit, the threat of misfortune sending everyone into a panic.
“I agree,” she offered, releasing the air trapped in her lungs.
She looked at the man she’d fought heaven and hell to bring home.
“I predict a wonderful Christmas is in our future.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Barrett said raising his glass in salute.
“Hear! Hear!” the viscount added.
Chris raised his glass hesitantly, then cleared his throat to gain their attention. “For safe passage home.”
“Hear! Hear!” she said, unable to contain her excitement. The image of Chris in the green parlor, and the memory of seeing him once more in her presence filled her with immense pleasure.
The night went on, with everyone in jubilant spirits as they spoke of old times and customs, and other Christmases they’d enjoyed until the topic of Chris’s mother stopped the conversation cold.
Emma looked at Chris, her nerves on edge and her body shaking with apprehension as she waited for him to speak.
He remained still, swallowing thickly. “How did she die?” he finally asked, his voice uneven and barely audible.
She looked to the viscount who sat in quiet dismay. His haggard face deceivingly calm. “I am sorry to have to tell you—”
“No, Emma,” the viscount snapped. “Allow me to explain.”
“My Lord.” She shook her head, raising her hand defiantly.
“It is my obligation to share this unhappy news.” She faced Chris, his solemn gaze tearing at her soul.
“Lady Astley-Milne was a well-loved, respectable woman. You remember how much she advocated for the tenants and their families. I am sorry that her kindness extended to my own family, and she died caring for my sick parents.” Guilt-ridden over the Christian act the viscountess had performed for her parents, she sought to ease his inner turmoil.
“I should have stopped her. I should have—”
“No,” Chris shouted abruptly. “The blame is not yours. My mother was a force to be reckoned with. If she chose to enact such a kindness, she did so for good reason.”
“She had a very good reason, my son,” the viscount said before turning to Emma.
“Do not blame yourself, girl. Christmas is not the season to count our losses—or to blame others—it is a time of renewal.” He looked over at his son.
“A time for family, for giving thanks.” He glanced at the lieutenant.
“And a time to forge new relationships, to begin anew.” His gaze wound its way back to Emma, and he raised his cup. “A time when love triumphs over all.”
“Hear! Hear!” the lieutenant exclaimed.
Stricken by her own fears that Chris would hold his mother’s death against her and thankful for the viscount’s support, she measured Chris’s reaction over the rim of her glass.
“Tell me about your cousin, Emma,” Chris said, redirecting the subject back to her.
Tension built in the room. She felt it pressing in, unsure if Chris blamed her for his mother’s death or if he sought more information about her role in his rescue.
Neither boded well. “My cousin is selfless and reckless, determined and dangerous, a man of his word, someone who,” —she fought for the right words without giving too much away— “would go to great lengths to help those in need, especially those he loves. He’s more than family.
He’s a friend in times of trouble. He’s cunning, crafty, and compassionate.
No one is more important than another in his eyes.
And yet there is a side to him I would never want to cross. He can be ruthless.”
Chris nodded then downed his brandy, frowning. “And what inspired a man like that to search for me?”
It was an innocent question, wasn’t it? Nonetheless, there were things about Emma, intimacies and intrigue, she didn’t want made known, especially to Sir Christmas, lest he somehow seek to stop her profitable smuggling franchise.
Lord Astley-Milne answered for her. “He’s a pirate. What more can be said?”
“Yes, but you said he is your cousin—”
“I, for one,” the lieutenant said, “am satisfied that anyone—be it pirate or smuggler or otherwise—searched for us and found us. Knowing the why of it takes away from the mystery, and I do love a good mystery.”
She flashed the lieutenant a smile, thankful he’d redirected the conversation away from her connection to Ansell. But when she met Chris’s stare, she could see that he wasn’t satisfied.
Still, he raised his glass to salute her and said, “Another time, perhaps.”
Drat! He would not let this go. He meant to keep digging.
It was bad enough that she’d resorted to smuggling to help her cousin, the village, and England, risking life and limb to do her part.
She didn’t intend to allow Lady Astley-Milne’s sacrifice, protecting Emma from the very ailment that infirmed her parents, a misfortune in every sense, one she longed to reverse time to put right, to cause her to lose her sense of purpose now.
Whether Chris found out and approved or not, she wasn’t going to stop helping Ansell until two things happened.
First, the war ended. And second, she got caught.